


Thou Shall Not Con

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Kidnapping, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter never understood what Neal meant when he said he was a conman and not a con, man; but in the midst of his search for him he really starts to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I don’t like where this is going. You need to leave,” Nicholai Delecroix said.

“Not until I get what I came for,” Peter replied as he pushed the money towards the older French man. The stillness of the warehouse he was in made his blood run cold, even though it was unusually warm outside. From what he knew, these guys had been occupying this space for weeks, making a pretty penny selling fake Monets.

“Something isn’t right here.” Nicholai turned to his men. “Pack up everything, we’re moving. Go get the artist, quickly.”

“Put your hands up!” Peter yelled. He readjusted his grip on his gun. He was close, so close he just knew it. This operation had gone to hell, he just really needed his back-up to get here so he wouldn’t end up there too.

Six months had passed since Neal had gone missing, or ran away as the Justice Department determined. Peter didn’t believe that though, not for a second. Neal looked him straight in the eye, told him he had changed. Even though he knew Neal was pissed that day when he told him he wasn’t getting his release, he knew he wasn’t stupid enough to just run away like that.

Peter felt rotten about the whole thing, which didn’t help matters. He felt like a hypocrite too. All these years Peter scolded and lectured Neal how the F.B.I. was there for his own good, there to reform him, there to tell him they were the good guys just trying to knock the badness out of him. In reality, Peter now realized that _they_ were the bad guys. He also realized that Neal had never left prison; his cell was just enlarged to a two mile radius instead of his former 8 by 10.

So Peter, being the quiet genius that he was, started planning. In an undetectable way, he took on the role that Neal Caffrey outwardly displayed every day; Peter was conning the F.B.I. He started setting up sting operation that hopefully encased the type of people who might find having Neal in their pockets valuable. He set up ops that involved forgers and art thieves. The F.B.I. never gave him a second look as to why he wanted to go after these people or those people. Peter played along, making it seem that he just wanted to catch these criminals, but he really just wanted to catch _his_ criminal.

So yes, even though Peter Burke wasn’t walking around in Devore suits, drinking French wine in the mid-morning, or gluing his scalp to ridiculous hats that only cartoon characters wore, he essentially became the man he was trying to tame all these years. He had to admit though, it got him what he wanted and he liked that very much.


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought I told you not to move,” Peter said.

“And what are you going to do about it?” Nicholai asked with a smug grin. “You’re a Fed, aren’t you? I could tell just by the way that cheap shirt is ironed.”

Peter had a choice. Say the safe word and have his team swarm the place or pull his invisible Devore cape around his shoulders tighter and play along. And isn’t that what Neal had been trying to teach him for five years now? To just roll with the punches and play along?

“I am Fed indeed.” As soon as the words rolled off his tongue, Nicholai’s men had their guns drawn and aimed. He took a deep breath and remained calm. “But I am also a very interested buyer. I’m willing to look the other way if it means a little extra cash in my pocket. Our salaries aren’t really up to par with my standards if you get my drift.”

“Why the hell would I team up with you?”

“Because I don’t see any other way out of this for you. Either shoot me dead, my team comes in here and arrest all of you or we work out a business deal.”

“So you’re suggesting a partnership?”

“Partnerships are for suckers. They never play nice with one another and everyone just ends up dead. I’m talking about a buyout,” Peter said with a smug grin of his own.

“You want to buy my business?”

“No. I want to buy the person that makes your business profitable. The artist. I want him.”

“He’s not for sale.”

“You see the money on the table? The $100,000 I brought ? Keep it, and keep the Monet. It’s a sign of good faith from me to you.”

“I was going to keep it regardless of whether you took the painting or not, but the artist is not for sale.”

“Maybe you don’t feel that way today but soon you will. I don’t know if you know anything about painters, but over time they develop arthritis, especially if they hold paintbrushes in their hands for hours a day. He’ll be worthless soon and you better believe when he is you won’t get a dime for him. Not from me, not from anyone. Then all you’ll have is crooked Monets.”

Peter had to do this. He had to say these words, even if he hated himself a little more for saying them. He didn’t have a clue where they were holding Neal and he knew if he didn’t make such a deal they would have gotten to him before his team could find him.

Nicholai thought. He thought hard Peter could see. Yes, say yes. C’mon Neal, let me remember what you taught me. I’m a creature of habit. I studied you, your smirks, your walk, you mind. What would you have said to clinch this deal shut?

“It’s a good deal Nicholai and you know it. I keep the Feds off your back, you continue making your money, I get 25% of the sales and then I get the goods before he is completely damaged. Win-win. So extend your hand towards me and lets shake on it. I might just have more important things to deal with than _you_ if you’re quick about it.”

Yes, Peter said to himself. Get ready to walk away. Make him come to you. Peter buttoned his suit jacket and looked at his watch, as if this deal taking place was the most boring thing he'd ever done.

Nicholai looked at his men and gave them a curt nod. They lowered their weapons. He stepped closer and gave the most psychotic smile Peter had ever seen on a human being. He extended his hand. Peter shook it and smiled.

“I’ll be back in two days to get my cut. I also want to meet the artist himself. See how he works,” Peter said as he let go of Nicholai’s hand.

“I believe we have a deal, Fed.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay, Fed, here’s your money.”

“Okay, Nicholai, now bring me the artist.”

Francois, his right hand man, slipped down a hallway. Peter’s heart was racing. He wouldn’t give his team the go ahead until he saw Neal in front of him.

Nicholai was quiet, but his smugness remained plastered on his face. Peter surveyed the other men, there were only three of them but he knew that meant at least six guns were present in the room.

Peter thought his heart dropped to the floor as he saw Francois drag what appeared to be a thin pile of bones dressed in black. The sound of chains dragging against the cement floor scratched his eardrums in a sickening way. Peter was so stunned he couldn’t even speak. Air hitched inside his chest and for the first time in a long time he couldn’t breathe.

Neal kept his eyes to the floor, afraid to look up it seemed. His lips were twice the size they should have been, all swollen and cracked. One eye was closed, cemented shut by a purple shiner, a cut danced on his forehead; it was definitely infected.

Francois tightened his hold around his body and pulled him like a broken rag doll. Neal didn’t make a sound, he only exhaled jagged breathes.

“Let go of him,” Peter said calmly. He hoped when Neal heard his voice he would look up. He needed to see Neal’s eyes, to tell him that everything was okay, that he was okay. But he never did, his head stayed down, eyes fixated on the dirty ground. “Hold him any tighter and you’ll suffocate him, what good is he to me then?” Peter asked.

“He’s still ours, we do as we please with him. Now, you said you wanted to watch him work.”

Peter so badly wanted to tell Neal he was here to save him. He looked so broken. Peter would have said the safety word but he couldn’t just yet, there was too much time in between his men coming in here and Nicholai’s men using their guns on them. “I don’t like the way he looks. If you expect me to pay for him at the end of this, you’ll need to improve the conditions he is in. He looks to be in poor health,” Peter forced out.

“Well that’s my business. He’s been fine thus far. Haven’t you, Neal?” Nicholai asked as he placed his hand on Neal’s chin and forced him to look up. When Neal didn’t respond Nicholai slapped him across the face. He grabbed Neal by the neck and forced him to look at him . “Answer me.”

“Y-yes.”

“That’s right. Now, this man here wants to buy you later but he wants to see how you work. He’s going to watch you finish that painting from yesterday and if you don’t screw it up this time, you’ll get a whole bottle of water tonight.”

Peter’s blood boiled. His hands clenched into fists but they remained at his side. 

Francois dragged Neal to the other side of the warehouse and threw him into the chair. He turned the lamp on and lifted off the sheet covering the almost finished Monet. Peter didn’t think he could take anymore and was about to give the team the go-ahead, but Francois interrupted this plan.

“Boss, we have a problem, he got blood on the painting.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Nicholai muttered. He walked over to Neal, Peter was hot on his trail.

“There, in the corner.” Francois said, pointing.

Neal feverishly wiped his nose on the sleeve of his arm, fresh blood coating it when he brought it down. “I-I can fix it,” Neal said quickly.

Peter was sure he heard his voice crack. Neal was absolutely petrified, not because he didn’t know what was going to happen, but because he knew exactly what was going to happen.

Nicholai didn’t verbally respond. The rage seemed to seep out of his pores and transform him into a furious pit bull ready to pounce. He grabbed Neal by the back of his neck and threw him to the ground and started kicking him.

That was it. Peter couldn’t stand there anymore. He grabbed Nicholai by the arm and pushed him away from Neal’s battered and bruised body. He took out his gun and pointed it at whomever was getting close. He didn’t care that all five men now had their guns drawn at him.

Peter couldn't contain this con. He couldn't keep up the facade that he was here to _buy_ Neal. Who was he kidding? There was _only_ one man who could pull this off and right now he was in no capacity to do that. Peter accepted he wasn't a conman, he was just a con right now. In that moment he respected Neal on a whole other level. It was damn hard doing what he did. 

“I need back up now,” Peter said. Screw the safety word. He didn’t have time.

“What the hell?!” Nicholai screamed.

“Just get the hell back!” Peter said. He never took his eyes off these monsters even though he desperately wanted to look at Neal who was balled up on the floor, his hand covering his mouth as if he were trying to silence his sobs, as if Nicholai had trained him never to let him hear him cry or else.

When the FBI team came running through the building, that’s when Peter heard the gun shots. A lot of them. He looked down at the ground, he was going to throw himself over Neal but he wasn’t where he was a second ago. When the firing stopped he saw Nicholai on the ground, not moving. Francois on the other hand was standing in the corner with his hand around Neal’s neck, holding him close , a gun at his temple.

“Let him go!” Peter said, aiming his gun.

“This is the thing, I can’t. If I don’t keep him, he is of no value to us, he may as well be dead,” Francois answered.

Peter heard an agonizing sound leave Neal’s mouth. It was somewhere between a sob and a yell, like he knew this was the plan, he knew the end was coming, he knew couldn’t do a thing about it. Neal squeezed his eyes shut and let the tears fall, let them hit his naked dirty feet, let them all see he was just a broken artist and a failure of a conman.

“It’s okay, Neal,” Peter said as he kept his gun aimed at the monster that held his friend’s life in his hands.

Neal looked up and met Peter’s eyes. His face was streaked with dirt, blood and tears. Peter could see that he wasn’t okay and maybe he never would be. Neal shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered .

“I’m either taking him with me alive or you can take him dead. It’s your choice,” Francois said as he pushed the gun deeper into Neal’s skin.

“See, that’s a problem because I don’t really like any of those options,” Peter said.

“I don’t care if you like them or not. How about we let Neal here decide? Do you want to go with us or stay with him?” Francois asked as he pulled his grip around his neck tighter. Peter knew what he asking; did he want to go with them and live or stay here and die?

“I don’t want to die,” Neal sobbed.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter was never that sensitive of his senses. Yes, he had them and used them wisely but he never thought of them as anything but ordinary. However, at that moment, he swore he had superhuman abilities to hear, see and smell.

The sound of numerous bullets escaping from their chambers seemed to break his ear drums, the sight of Neal Caffrey falling to the floor seemed to blind him and the blood that escaped from his torso sickened his nostrils in a nauseating way.

It was imperative the FBI trained sharp shooter took the shots that he did; Francois’ fingers touched the exact place where if one more second passed, Neal would have had a bullet in his head. Francois was shot three times, unfortunately the fourth bullet hit Neal. Now Peter was at his side, kneeling over, holding his bloody hand and commanding he keep his eyes open.

“Dammit,” Peter grunted as he watched more blood pour out of his side and coat the grey floor around them.

“The paramedics are two minutes away,” Diana said as she hurriedly took off her jacket.

Peter grabbed the cloth and applied pressure to the wound; he became alarmed when Neal didn’t scream or cry. He knew that meant he was in limbo—the pain was so excruciating that it kind of felt euphoric. He also knew that was the kind of pain one only felt at the end.

When three paramedics emerged, Peter sighed only a small breathe of relief. He let go of Neal’s hand and started to get up to give them room. With every last ounce of energy he knew he had, Neal grabbed his wrist. “No, please! Please! Don’t leave me, don’t leave me!” Neal screamed.

“I’m not leaving you, I’m staying right here. They need to get you to the hospital,” he answered gently.

“Please don’t go! I’m going to die, Peter. I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to die alone!”he shouted as tears streamed down his face.

“You’re not going to die, I promise. But you’re bleeding a lot and they can help you, okay?”

Neal took a deep breath as blood slowly spilled out of the corners of his mouth. Once again, now with even more resistance, he started to move away but Neal’s grip on his wrist did not soften. “I’m sorry, Peter. For everything. You were good to me, so good. Better than you should have been.”

“You can tell me all of that again after we get you to the hospital,” he responded as tears fell against his cheeks and he squeezed the bleeding man’s arm in assurance.

“I don't want to die alone,” Neal whispered as his eyes shut close.

Peter watched helplessly from the side. Diana pulled him away from the scene. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew it was better if he wasn’t right there, analyzing every detail. He finally took a deep exhale when he saw the medics load Neal into the ambulance. One nodded to him, indicating he was alive…for now.

When the ambulance door shut and drove away with that annoying siren blaring intensely, Jones handed him an FBI windbreaker. Peter was a bit confused but he caught a glimpse of his hands, then his shirt, then his pants. They were coated with Neal’s blood.

“Francois is alive,” Jones said quietly.

Peter raised his brow, how could that be? He had been shot multiple times. He looked dead from where he was standing.

Peter watched, as if in slow motion, as a second stretcher make its way to the other ambulance. Francois had an oxygen mask over his face, a thick blue blanket draping his thick body. What really made him angry was the fact that his eyes were open. Neal was literally fighting for his life, shot because of this monster’s sins, yet Francois was resting comfortably and making sure oxygen found its way into his lungs so that he could take another breath.

Peter walked over and stood over him, he wanted to spit on him.

Francois lowered his oxygen mask and smirked. “The artist, if he lives, I’ll get him again, and you’ll never find him.”

The spit that left Peter’s mouth and hit Francois in the eye was even more rewarding than he thought it would be. He didn’t try and con himself or anyone else watching; He outright enjoyed doing it.


	5. Chapter 5

“How’s he doing today?” Peter asked the doctor.

“We took the incubation tube out this morning--”

“He’s awake? Why didn’t anyone call me? I asked you to call me--”

“Agent Burke, with all due respect, I wasn’t going to let my patient be uncomfortable longer than he had to be. Mr. Caffrey is beyond lucky he came out of his coma, we wanted him breathing on his own as quickly as possible.”

For the past seven days Peter was on pins and needles, he thought this was it for Neal, he really thought he wasn’t going to survive. Peter sat with him day after day, watching his chest rise and fall, watching the nurses wipe away the blood on his face, watching the bruises distort from one shade to another.

“You can see him if you like; his throat is very tender so don’t let him speak too much. And don’t let him move around either; he did just have major surgery on his stomach.”

“But he’s okay?"

“We're watching for any fever--”

“Fever?”

“50% of patients develop post-operative fevers. He’ll be fine as long as we monitor him. Right now we just want to make him comfortable.”

*****

“Neal?” Peter had gotten as used to as he could at looking at his battered face, his thin body and the various tubes sticking out of him, but he couldn’t ‘get used to the way his eyes were now dull and glazed over or the sweat that was perspiring over his brows. He knew he was on a cocktail of strong medications, but he still looked like he was in a lot of pain. Neal eyed him lazily, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. “Shh…rest.”

As Neal slept for the rest of the afternoon, Peter managed to read three newspaper, eat a muffin he was sure expired two weeks ago and take a nap himself. He was abrasively woken up to the sound of machines beeping loudly. His own alarm went off in his head when he looked at Neal. He was wide awake, sweat soaked his hair and face; his breathing was so ragged it sounded like he was fighting for air. He touched Neal’s arm and felt it was hot, almost burning. Before he had a chance to press the call button, a doctor and nurse came in.

“Neal, how are you feeling?” the doctor asked as he placed his stethoscope on his chest. The nurse took his temperature and showed it to the doctor. “Shit. Get me some ice packs, now.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Peter asked nervously.

“He has a fever. It’s rising. Neal? Neal, look at me,” the doctor commanded as he turned back to his patient. The doctor grabbed one of the ice packs from the nurse’s hands and placed it behind Neal's neck. They put two more in between his armpits and one on his forehead.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked.

“He needs to cool down,” the doctor answered as he placed two more packs on Neal’s wrists.

“His temperature is down to 103.4,” the nurse said.

“ _Down?_ ” Peter asked.

******

When Neal’s fever finally broke the next morning, and he managed to keep some orange juice down, Elizabeth persuaded Peter to come home. Peter spoke to the Marshals outside Neal’s room and repeated their instructions twice to them: no one but the doctor or nurse goes in and out.

He checked on the officers outside Francois’ room as well. He didn’t dare look inside, he didn’t want to see that animal. He really hoped the doctors didn't think he actually cared, he only asked everyday how Francois was doing so he would know when he could get him out of there, far from Neal and into a jail cell. How long was a collar bone supposed to stay broken anyways?

He admitted to himself that it actually felt good to be back home, shower and eat a hearty meal. Although he felt guilty too, how many times did Neal probably just want to go home and do these things…He forced himself to stop thinking about that for now, he had to sleep, it had been too many hours since the last time he did it.

******

“Uhg. What time is it?” Elizabeth groaned.

Peter’s heart rate spiked. He glanced at his clock, it was 4 o'clock in the morning and the phone was ringing. “What is it?”

“Boss, Neal’s gone,” Jones said.

As Peter walked through the hospital floor, he felt like he was doing it in slow motion. The people’s faces were blurred, his legs shook, he didn't hear the noise or chatter.

Diana was standing outside Neal’s hospital room. She took one look at her boss and got off her cell immediately. “Marshals were getting coffee. Peter, Francois…he’s escaped. The officers guarding his room are in critical condition. Stab wounds…”

Her words drowned into the background as Peter entered Neal’s room. There were various police officers and detectives, all with latex gloves on, looking for what? Peter didn't know. He looked at the bed where, if people who were actually interested in doing their jobs, Neal would have been lying. Various medical instruments were strewn over the floor, indicating there had been a struggle. How much of a struggle though? Neal was still so weak.

He glanced at the floor by the bed, the IV stand was there, detached from the arm it should have been in, drops of blood next to it when it was roughly pulled out.

Francois’s last words echoed in Peter's ears. _“The artist, if he lives, I’ll get him again…and you’ll never find him.”_

******

The pain in his stomach hit him immediately and harshly. He smelled the overwhelming aroma of pine wood and dirt. As he struggled to open his eyes, he saw he was laying down on a bed in what appeared to be a quaintly decorated cabin. He looked down at his arm; a bruise covered the area where his IV should have been. He tried moving, he wasn't tied up or anything, but he felt so incredibly weak. He glanced out the window…trees…birds chirping. He was in the woods.

“Hello?” He got no response. “Peter?” he called, this time more loudly.

His head was really hurting now. He couldn’t remember how he was here or why but he remembers waking up earlier and it being really hot, like he was surrounded by fire. He also remembers Peter standing over him, then the doctor asking how he was, then it was really cold.

“The artist is up.”

No...no…no! Suddenly it hit him; he was his hospital room, woken up by a noise. Francois was standing over him, his fingers pressed against his lips. He reached for the call button. Francois shook his head and grabbed him by the collar of his gown. He remembers thrashing around, trying to break free, he stopped when Francois placed his hand on his stomach right over his gunshot wound. He remembers Francois' hand covering his mouth to mask the screams.

“Wh-where am I?” Neal asked.

“Don’t speak. You are still weak…although I don’t know how that makes it any different from before. You will paint for me. You will paint until I tell you to stop.”

Neal wanted to tell him to go to hell, but as soon as his lips parted Francois grabbed his face and shoved a bottle in his mouth. Neal’s eyes watered as the vodka slid down his throat.

“That’s it, good. Drink up artist,” Francois said as he brought the bottle down. Neal spit out as much as he could. He thought the day he was rescued was the last day he would have to drink this horrible stuff.

“Don’t do that! I don’t want to mix sleeping pills with alcohol. That would be very bad. Now drink more.” Francois didn’t wait for him to comply and roughly shoved the bottle back into his mouth.

As the alcohol hit his bloodstream, Neal became more and more tired. “I’m…I’m not painting anything for you anymore…”

His eyes were already closed but he heard Francois whisper as left the room, “Oh my little artist, you will do what I say, I promise.”

*****

“Hospital employee reported her car stolen about half an hour after we discovered Francois missing,” Diana said.

“Is there any surveillance?” Peter asked.

Diana paused and looked at Jones.

“Is there any surveillance?” Peter asked again.

“Yes,” Jones answered.

“I want to see it.”

“Peter--”

“I want to see it now.” 

"Okay."

“Oh goddammit,” Peter sighed as he shut the video off. Francois dragged Neal through the parking garage like he was a broken puppy, that made him so angry, but it was the slap across the face right before he threw Neal into the back seat that really got to Peter.

“Security guard was on break, no other witnesses, it was 3:45 in the morning,” Jones said.

“Check--”

“We’ve already requested surveillance from all major tolls and bridges in the area, also traffic cameras,” Diana said.

Peter nodded; thankful he had his best people on this. “I don’t think…I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

Jones and Diana were both unsure how to respond.

“Francois has probably gone underground. There’s only one person who can find him,” Peter said as he took out his cell phone and dialed his wife’s number. “El…I need you to get in touch with Haversham. I need his help.”


	6. Chapter 6

It took 18 phone calls from El before he picked up, but 24 hours later Mozzie was in Peter’s kitchen, sitting at the table and looking at a picture of Francois. “Oh no,” he said under his breath.

Peter looked at El, both were equally alarmed. “What?” she asked.

Mozzie bit his lip and closed his eyes. “Are you sure _this_ is the man that took Neal?”

“Yes,” Peter answered.

“His boss, Nicholai--”

“Is dead.”

“Well that’s an even bigger problem then.”

Peter’s heart jumped into his throat.“Why?”

“Immunity?”

“We don’t have time for your games. Yes, immunity. Tell me.”

“About seven years ago, Neal and I were in Paris. Nicholai hired us to steal a rare Picasso--”

“Out of a museum?”

“No suit, we’re thieves, not suicidal. No one can steal a Picasso out of the Louvre.”

“So from where then?”

“One of Nicholai’s enemies, Louis. He kept it in his penthouse. Francois is the one who got us the alarm codes, times the penthouse would be empty…basically what we needed to get the job done.”

“Okay, so what was the problem?”

“Nicholai’s brother, Elie was a painter--”

“Was?”

“Yes, was. Their plan was to have Elie study the Picasso before they sold it, then he would replicate it and sell the forgeries. Unfortunately, Louis discovered the plan; as a result he shot Elie dead.”

“Oh my god,” El said.

“Nicholai blamed himself, he blamed Francois…treated him like shit from what I heard; Francois has been trying to make it up to him ever since. Francois blamed Neal and I though.”

“Why?”

“He said we weren’t careful, we left too many clues. We gave the money back. We don’t take money that has blood on it. Neal offered to make a few forgeries instead, to make up the money they could have earned with it. Instead they put a hit out on us, we vanished after that.”

“So…that’s why Nicholai wanted Neal…to paint.”

“Elie was a good forger, maybe as good as Neal.”

“Mozzie…why didn’t…”

“Why didn’t I look for Neal?”

“Yes.”

“Number one, I didn’t know Nicholai had him, otherwise I would have done something. Two, I really thought Neal ran. I figured he thought he would be better off if he went solo. I wasn’t insulted; in our line of work, when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“This Francois guy, he's insane.”

“Uh yea. And if you’re saying he has Neal…then he has him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean if we don’t find him soon…we’re never going to.”

Peter sighed in utter frustration. “So what are we going to do?”

Mozzie took out his phone, “I’ll get in touch with my contacts.”

****

Neal stared out the window, of course it was sealed shut, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look out of it. The forest surrounding them was serene, calm, peaceful. He winced as he ran his fingers over his gunshot wound. He lifted his shirt and peeled off the bandage; it was red and purple and pus was surrounding it.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the door open, there was only one person who could be standing behind him.

“These look good,” Francois said as he looked at the paintings on the easels.

“Enough is enough, you have to let me go, I can’t paint for you forever.”

“You will paint until your debt is repaid or until Elie magically rises from the dead.”

Neal sighed and faced his captor. “Elie wasn’t my fault. You can’t punish me for your mistakes!”

Francois backhanded him across the face, sending him to the cold wooden floor. He spit blood near his feet.“My wound is infected, if you don’t let me go, I’m going to die. You want more blood on your hands?”

Francois responding by placing his foot on Neal’s tender wound. He screamed in agony. “Finish the paintings by sundown, then we are going to play a game.”


	7. Chapter 7

His wrist burned, his fingers were tight from overuse and his vision was blurred. He used to love painting, now he thinks he truly hates it. The smell of fresh acrylic paint used to give him goose bumps. Now it just sickens him.

“You haven’t eaten,” Francois said.

Neal put his paintbrush down and looked at the plate. He had grown used to living off very little since being captured all those months ago; he was unsure why all of a sudden Francois was trying to feed him.

“It’s not poisoned.”

Neal chuckled. “Why should I believe you?”

Francois rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to. But you will need the energy.”

Neal lost whatever little appetite he had after that. He didn’t know what Francois was implying by that, but he didn't want to find out. He also didn’t know what he meant earlier when he said they were going to play a game. He was sick of games. His life was not a game, even if everyone else around him seemed to think it was.

“I know you’re still upset over Elie…but me painting like this won’t bring him back.”

Francois narrowed his eyes. “You took him away from me--”

“He wasn’t even your own brother--”

“I loved him! And he loved me!”

Neal closed his eyes and realized why his captor held such a deep grudge. Francois and Elie were lovers.

“I’m sorry about what happened to Elie, but--”

“No artist. No but. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to get my revenge? All those years of Nicholai blaming me for his brother’s death…all those years he treated me like shit! It was only after I suggested that we kidnap you and make you paint for us did Nicholai show me some respect again. Then you’re stupid Agent friend ruined it and now Nicholai’s dead!”

“So you want me dead too? Is that what will end your pain? It won’t!”

Francois threw his coffee mug to the ground in rage; he then knocked over the table, all the brushes and paints went flying to the floor. Neal put his hands up in front of his face in anticipation of the blows. Francois grabbed Neal by his arm and dragged out of the room.

When they got to the front door, Francois swung it open and inched closer.

Neal’s eyes were wide with fear and confusion. The wound near his stomach was on fire from the all the movement. He shivered as he felt the coldness from outside hit his face.

“Go.”

Neal looked outside and then back at Francois. He had no idea what was happening. Francois pushed him roughly out the door and he almost fell to his knees from the force. “Go, now!”

Neal didn’t wait for a third order of this command. He started running as fast as he body would allow. He didn’t care there was snow on the ground and he had no shoes or socks on, he didn't care he only had on a light layer of clothes on, he just cared that he was finally free.

“You won’t get far my little artist,” Francois said to himself as he closed the door.

****

“Okay suit, my sources say Francois has either gone upstate or down south.”

Peter glanced at the shorter man, clearly not amused. “That’s a big either.”

“Well it’s better than any of the leads your people have come up with. How many is that so far? Oh that’s right, none.”

Peter sighed. “Okay, where do we go from here?”

“There may or may not be a sale of a high quality painting happening today--”

“Stop with the may or may not! This is Neal’s life Mozzie!”

“You think I don’t know that!? I actually don’t know if it’s happening. It’s what I heard through the grapevine.”

Peter ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Mozzie nodded. “It’s okay.”

“Diana, please tell me something,” Peter said as he picked up his cell phone.

“The stolen car matching the license plate from the hospital went through a toll without paying. It was near the mountains. About two hours away..”

Peter sighed a real breathe of relief. “Okay, check the area for remote houses, cabins, warehouses--”

“Already did. Most of the cabins are vacation rentals. There were three cabins that actually belong to people. We ran their names through the database.”

“Did you find anything?”

“There was something strange about one of them.”

“What?”

“It belongs to a dead man. A man by the name of Elie Delacroix, dead for six years--”

Peter looked at Mozzie, a little hope was in both of their eyes. “Give me that address now.”


	8. Chapter 8

Neal ran. He ran despite his naked feet burning with numbness from the snow, despite his skin freezing with coldness, and despite the wound in his stomach begging for him to stop. His nose dripped, his eyes watered, he was ready to collapse, but he didn’t. He kept going.

When his body ached for him to stop and he couldn’t fight it anymore, he leaned against a tree, just for a minute, just until he caught his bearings. Looking around at the white forest, at the calmness of it, it almost seemed beautiful.

But he was scared. He was alone. Cold. Goddamn lost. Tears fell as he realized he was probably far from anyone who could help him before the frostbite won and he died right by this tree. He hadn’t seen one person so far, or one cabin, or one stupid animal. Nothing.

 _BOOM!_ The sound of a single bullet echoed off the wilderness and stung his ears. He held his breathe. _It’s a hunter, he can help me._ The sound of snow crunching was getting closer.

 _BOOM!_ Another gun shot. _CRACK_. A chunk of the tree he was standing next to blew off.

He looked ahead, Francois was standing 50 feet away, a rifle in his hands.

Neal was never one to be wrong. There was indeed a hunter before him, but he was the one being hunted. “Why are you doing this!? You let me go!”

Francois loaded his gun again. “No artist, I said we were going to play a game,” he answered as he raised the rifle again.

Neal took a deep breath and ran behind the tree.

 _BOOM!_ He swears he saw the bullet fly past him.

He started running again. He almost fell when his foot landed into the snow and onto a sharp rock. He didn’t stop though even though he knew his blood was leaving a trail, making it so easy for the hunter to find the hunted.

 _BOOM!_ A tree branch fell from above him and landed in front of him. Neal stumbled over it and fell. Blood seeped out of his mouth and he was sure there was a cut on his forehead as blood trickled into his eyes. He tried to get up but Francois foot landed on his back, pressing down hard. He cried out in agony.

Francois kicked him in his side and he rolled over onto his back. The blood ran down the back of his throat, the tears in his eyes burned and he was in so much pain he hoped it would only be a few more seconds until this all ended.

“Don’t cry artist, you did well. Another mile and you would have found a neighbor.”

“Just do it already. Aim that gun at me and lets end this. You got your revenge. You win.”

Francois smiled. He raised the rifle and aimed it at Neal’s head.

Neal didn’t close his eyes. It looked as if he was looking at his soon to be murderer’s face but he wasn’t. He was looking past it, looking at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. _Shouldn’t be long now, Kate. I'm almost home.  
_

_BOOM!_

Neal didn’t expect to open his eyes again. But he did, smoke was coming out of the rifle staring at him. He turned slightly and saw a hole in the ground next to his head. Francois hadn’t shot him, he just wanted to scare him.

“We’re not done playing, artist.”

Neal screamed again as Francois grabbed his arm and dragged him. Dragged him all the way back to that cabin full of hell and the devil who housed it.

****

_BOOM!_

Peter stopped walking. His eyes darted in every direction. That was a gunshot, no doubt about it. _BOOM!_ He gripped his gun tightly. He heard screaming.

“Boss--”

“Shh!” Peter hissed as he put his hands up to silence Diana and the rest of his team. They were in the forest, walking around in the goddamn snow looking for that goddamn cabin that was supposed to be here. They had to park their cars about half a mile ago, there was no path to drive on. Now they were on foot. Now they were in the forbidden forest.

 _Oh god, Neal._ Please just let that be some hick hunting for deer, he thought. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t though. They were too close to where Francois was supposed to be. Where Neal was supposed to be.

“I think it came from this way,” Jones said as he pointed west.

They went another half mile. Peter didn’t want to hear another gunshot, he knew that would increase the chances of finding something he didn’t want to.

“Are you sure it came from this way?” Diana asked.

Peter was about to answer that he didn’t know, but then the red caught his eyes. Blood, in the shape of foot prints. He expanded his peripheral vision; there were streaks of red next to it, as if someone who was hurt badly had been dragged.

“Dammit,” Peter said as he pointed his gun at the blood. He turned to his team, “Fol-follow the blood.” _Neal’s blood._


	9. Chapter 9

Peter ran as best he could in the snow; following the foot prints, following the red. He stopped short when they were 50 feet away. He turned and faced his five agents, which thankfully included Jones and Diana. “I don’t want a repeat…of last time.”

They nodded.

“How far away is the ambulance?”

“Half an hour at most, headquarters gave them our GPS location,” Diana answered.

“I want the cabin surrounded, every door, every window. No one does anything until I say so, understood?”

They nodded again.

The closer he got to the cabin, the more uneasy he felt--if that was even possible. He imagined one horrible thing after another. _He’s been shot, beaten to a pulp, dying…alone. Neal didn’t want to die alone._

He stood on the tip of his toes and peered into the window, though he was afraid of what he would see. He saw nothing in particular except a cheaply decorated cabin; this scared him more. _Maybe this isn’t it. Maybe it was a hunter we heard shooting those rounds, maybe he was dragging back an animal…_

“Does anybody see anything?” Peter asked into his radio.

“There are footprints in the back, by the back door. I don’t think there’s anyone inside,” Jones responded.

Peter sighed. There was no clues, no paintings, no nothing. But he felt something and well, something is certainly better than nothing. “I’m going inside. Keep your eyes open and your guns drawn. If Neal is in here, I want to get him out as soon as possible. Francois is a dangerous bastard.”

He climbed the three wooden steps to the door, avoiding the blood. He didn’t knock, when he turned the knob he was surprised the door was not locked. He entered quietly, gun drawn. Always had to be. He stopped short when the floorboard creaked. _No one heard that, no one heard that._

The living room he was in seemed inviting, idyllic even. A knit quilt covered the tattered brown couch, magazines were strewn on the wooden coffee table…but something still didn’t seem right. It certainly didn’t smell like apple pie, it smelled like blood. Sure enough, he saw a trail of it leading down the hallway.

He glanced into the first few rooms and saw nothing. Then he heard something…someone. Sobs. Someone was crying. He continued down the hallway, the sobs were getting a little louder, not much though, as if they were being muffled.

He pushed open the last door with his gun, avoiding the smeared red on the knob. It was freezing in here. Paint brushes littered the floor, a broken easel was in the corner, dried paint was swirled on the wood. “Neal?”

The scene before him broke him. Neal was lying on the floor, facing the wall sobbing. As if he knew he was going to die right here with his hands tied to a broken radiator.

Peter rushed to his friend. He knelt down, afraid to touch him as he didn’t know the extent of his injuries. Neal was shivering violently, his hair was wet—snow still in it; he curled further away, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Neal, it’s Peter. It’s over.”

His sobs subsided slightly, now replaced with sniffles as he turned onto his back.

Peter cringed as he got a look at his face: a nasty cut on his forehead. which was still bleeding; cracked lips that almost seemed blue; one swollen eye that was daring to close; bruises on his cheeks and neck.

He looked at Peter and he seemed relieved, but for very wrong reasons. "I knew you wouldn't let me go out alone."

"Oh god, Neal...please," Peter pleaded sadly. _You're not going to die, not here, not now._

“But you can't stay here...he’s angry…really angry. You…before he comes back...you have to get out of here.” he whispered weakly.

“No, _we_ have to get out of here,” Peter replied as he started to untie the ropes.

“I’m too weak…I can’t…I can’t.”

“Yes you can, Neal. The cabin is surrounded. Now c’mon, we're _both_ leaving.”

“He’s coming back.”

“He’s not here.”

“Yes…yes he is…it’s part of the game…”

Peter attributed his words to confusion from the pain. He hooked his arm underneath Neal’s back as gently as possible.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Peter repeated as Neal let out an agonizing cry when he was hoisted off the floor.

Neal was cold to the touch. Peter wanted to take off his jacket and wrap him but there was no time. And he felt so unbelievably small in between his arms. Anger washed over him, again. Four months of torture, starvation, brutality. Peter could also feel the roughness poking from underneath Neal's shirt; the old bullet wound, it was probably infected.

They were close now, maybe ten steps away from the front door. “We’re almost out of here, Neal.”

“I see your Agent friend wants to play our little game, artist.”

 _Oh please, they were so close._ Peter reached for his gun.

“Don’t do it Agent Burke, or my last bullet goes into the artist’s back. Now drop him, as if he was fire in your hands.”

“No,” Peter said firmly. He felt Neal hold his breath. He peered over his shoulder and saw Francois’ gun sticking into the younger man's back.

“Do it.”

Peter let go and bless him, Neal didn’t fall to the ground.

“Good, now turn around. Both of you.”

They did as ordered.

“We’re going to play a little game. Neal likes games, don’t you?” Francois asked as he backed up a few feet.

Peter was about to protest but he saw Diana. She had her gun drawn, ready to go. Francois had no idea she was behind him.

“Okay,” Peter answered. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.

“Truth or dare, Agent Burke,” Francois said, “pick.”

“Truth.”

“If Neal had to die, what would be the most entertaining way?”

He didn’t dare answer that question. He didn’t know how to.

“Times up. You lose.” Francois raised his gun.

“Don’t even think about it,” Diana said, her gun was pressed against the back of his head now.

Francois conjured a devilish grin. “You won’t pull your trigger unless I pull mine, correct?" He focused back to Neal, not waiting for a response.  "Oh my little artist, it makes me sad that we won’t get to have any more fun. You didn’t get to win any of our games. which is shame; I had gifts for you. Not to worry, since you gave me a parting memory about someone I cared for, I gift the same to you.”

Neal eyes widened in horror as Francois aimed the gun away from him and then towards Peter.

“No!” Neal screamed. With any ounce of energy he had left, he turned his back towards his captor and stepped in front of Peter, then tackled him to the ground.

_BOOM!_

Another _BOOM!_ followed immediately. Francois was dead. It was as simple as that.

It wasn't simple for Peter though. It all happened before he could understand what occurred, leaving him numb. He couldn't feel any pain, but he knew that could be a good thing or a terrible thing. He could however, feel the angles of Neal’s rib cage pressed against his stomach. He also could feel the sticky hotness coating his clothes.

He could also simply assess that someone was bleeding; he just didn’t know if it was him or if it was Neal.


	10. Chapter 10

"Boss!" Diana yelled. "Peter!"

Peter opened his eyes, the stench of blood filled the air. He still couldn't feel any pain...but he felt....lighter? His heart spiked, Neal was no longer on top of him.

"Where--"

"You took a nasty fall, how's your head?"

Now that she mentioned it, his head was pounding. He slowly started to regain feeling in the rest of his body. He still felt no pain, no pain one would feel from a bullet penetrating you.

He sat up, slowly, Diana helping him.

"Is he dead?" he asked.

She nodded. She must have seen the terror and grief that immediately filled his eyes. "Francois is dead, but Neal is alive."

He grabbed his chest and forced himself to breathe. Diana lifted her arm and pointed towards the door. Peter looked and saw Neal lying on a stretcher, his eyes closed, an oxygen mask covering his face; red splattered his skin.

***

“It’s going to take a few months, but he’ll be fine,” the doctor said.

Peter nodded, he could still smell the scent of blood that littered that cabin.

“He has an infection running through his blood, from the bullet wound near his stomach, but I have him on strong antibiotics. He needed stitches on his forehead, his right wrist is broken; it’s a clean break.”

Peter might have thought that was a good thing; he’ll be able to paint again, but he didn’t think Neal would ever want to paint again. The thought of that made him angry and sad all at the same time.

“The bottom of his left foot also needed to be stitched. He was dehydrated and is very underweight.”

“I’ll take care of that last one. Me or my wife.”

***

“Hey.”

He instructed his vocal chords to string themselves together, to say hello back, but they didn’t. Instead they burned against his throat and his face contorted into a grimace of pain.

“Shh…the doctor says you have strep.”

He nodded, his eyes daring to close from exhaustion.

“You saved my life, Neal.” Peter grasped his hand. “The bullet would have hit my heart. It hit your shoulder instead.”

When Peter looked up, he saw tears running down the younger man’s face. He grabbed a tissue and gently dabbed his cheeks, avoiding the bruises. He didn’t know the exact reasons why he was crying, perhaps he finally understood that it was over. That all those months of being held captive, starved, tortured, beaten, were over.

“Thank you…for finding me…again,” Neal whispered weakly.

Peter squeezed his hand. “Always, Neal. Always.”


End file.
